


Bread Knife Incident

by nothingwrongwiththerain



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Author has ADHD, Eventual Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has ADHD, M/M, Panic Attack, Tim deserved better, aka 'its free real estate', and by my pen he will have it, and then an unwilling slumber party, but like, i feel we've not explored all the possibilities, medication mention, pre-relationship jonmartin, slightly drugged up cuddly jon, that 5 stitches represents, to heap abuse upon the tired man, updates!, y'all remember Michael stabbing Jon ?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26240491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingwrongwiththerain/pseuds/nothingwrongwiththerain
Summary: “Hey freckles. To what do I owe the pleasure of–”Martin’s voice crashed over the phones speaker, cutting Tim off in a whirlwind of blurry articulation. “Tim, thank god, I can’t find Jon and he isn’t answering and Jon always always picks up if I call him more than five times, I don’t know if he’s dead or–”Tim pulled up short, hand moving instinctively to cover his ear and block out the London traffic. “Whoa, whoa Martin slow down.”Martin did not.-As far as he knew, Tim had a pretty good idea of how the afternoon would play out - by no means did it involve one disappeared statement giver, a trip to the clinic, an impressive amount of secondhand pining and another one of those damn tapes.aka: what if Martin and Tim found Jon directly after he was stabbed and connected said event to Helen Richardson's statement?
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 307
Kudos: 689





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh?? I don't get a canonical stab location from s2 ep47 A New Door ?? hm ? ?? rip to all the lovely arm/shoulder/hand cuts and scrapes, if the tma wiki transcript has the line: [archivist yells in pain again, possibly from moving too quickly] I have no choice but to go for the gut. 
> 
> ...its from a place of love, i swear.

With one eye on the grey sky Tim was acutely aware of his loose hands, empty of the umbrella Martin offered him on his way out for lunch. Fingers opened and closed in his pocket, scars stretching as he returned from the cafe he frequented with Sasha. Well, he used to. Her new boyfriend – “Tom” - really? One letter made the difference? – had outranked their traditional bitch and chips session to start the week. For the third time.

He supposed he could forgive today's absence. Elias’ manic scheduling had brought half the Institute in on a Sunday. Reinstallation of the buildings CO2 system months after the Prentiss attack reeked of business malpractice, scheduling the process on a Friday and forcing the staff into a warped Friday-Saturday weekend was the overripe cherry on top.

Reaching for his phone as it vibrated to life, Tim kept turning over Sasha’s ever polite dismissal of his lunch break invitation. The injuries forcing him to take a month off work couldn’t have been more ill timed; he could have used those weeks to talk her out of starting a relationship right after a traumatic life event. Hell, he could have done it from home if she bothered to text him back. 

Tim still hadn’t met this ‘Tom’, despite the appearance of an actual printed photograph balanced on Sasha’s reorganized desk. One month and she was investing in a framed reminder? Why hadn't she changed her lock screen like a normal person? But no, instead the collection of office origami attempts were replaced, along with the rainbow post it notes and the cup entirely filled with black sharpies. Tim didn’t blame her for binning his shitty butterfly, but Martin was uncharacteristically proud of the tiny, lopsided cow he folded from a disproved statement. Or was it a police report? Or…? The memory was flimsy, crumpling under inspection like the well creased scraps Sasha so abruptly discarded.

Shaking off latent, self-righteous indignation over a paper bovine, Tim grinned at his phone caller ID. The screen was populated with a hyper focused Martin surreptitiously fixing the tag on Jon’s cardigan during a rare breakroom appearance of their boss (Tim had taken the photo a week and a half ago. He hadn’t informed either of them. Yet.) Rain drops were collecting on the screen as Tim thumbed to answer. A particular oddness percolated at the base of his skull; Martin hated calling. Tim could count on one hand the number of calls he had from his friend. He shook his head, scattering a few water droplets. Probably nothing. 

“Hey freckles. To what do I owe the pleasure of –”

Martin’s voice crashed over the phones speaker, cutting Tim off in a whirlwind of blurry articulation. “Tim, thank god, I can’t find Jon and he isn’t answering and Jon always always picks up if I call him more than five times, I don’t know if he’s _dead_ or–”

Tim pulled up short, hand moving instinctively to cover his ear and block out the London traffic. “Whoa, whoa Martin slow down.”

Martin did not. 

“There is blood all over the office and Sasha said Jon was here a minute ago but he clearly isn’t now, and there was some woman giving a statement and nobody has seen her either, what if she kidnapped him or–”

“Okay, nobody is getting kidnapped,” Tim said, quickly resuming his route with a sharp purpose to his steps, sound of his shoes on the pavement speeding up to match his climbing heart rate. He forced his voice into something manageable. “That would be a bit much, even for the Institute.” Tim hoped the assurance sounded better than it tasted.

“Yeah, but–” 

“Martin.” Information. Tim desperately shoved back at the rising tide of _‘she’s back she’s back should have known’_. He needed information he could act on, sifting through every worried stare and cut off comment Jon made since his limping return to the office. _Should have paid more attention, should have known_. “I want to help. I will help. But I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Well I don’t either!” Martin choked out. Exactly how awful the sufficiently awful situation was sunk another claw in as Tim realized Martin was crying. 

“Look, I’m almost back,” Tim said, nearly stepping blindly into the street. “Just – start from the beginning?” He bit down on a curse as the light changed. Waiting a beat, Tim was met with nothing but shaky breathing from the other end of the line. “Martin, really need you to talk to me buddy. What are we up against? Should we be calling the police?”

“Maybe?” Martin said, voice small in a way Tim had heard once before, through a door. Nearly missed over the whir of the tape recorder and the lines of pain as he reached for his bag. Martin’s apology to Tim came later, more composed and following strings of texts and reassurances that Tim didn’t blame him. Nothing like the raw scrape of guilt he caught from the office, prompting Tim to loitered around, picking at fresh bandages until Jon acknowledged the heartfelt sorry. “There – there’s a lot of blood.” Martin finished, nearing a whisper. 

“Okay,” Tim said, heels bouncing as he turned on the spot. How long was this damn light? “Let’s start there – where is it?” 

“I found,” Martin stopped so short Tim had to spare a glance to check if the call dropped. If not that...

“Breathe,” Tim said lightly. 

There was a rush of unsteady static. “Yeah – right. I found, I found blood in Jon’s office. And the hall. And the break room.” 

“Right.” Tim said. He wasn’t sure if there was anything else he could say to that. He shifted restlessly from foot to foot, eyeing the inordinate, impassable barrage of vehicles blocking his path. Traffic had lulls, right? He could find a gap to bolt across. Clinging to that, Tim watched and watched and was not at all imagining an office splattered, hallway trailing, or breakroom puddled with the bright angry smears on his clothes, on his arms, on his chest when he jerked awake in quarantine.

“And Jon was, he’s just gone.” 

Tim swallowed, hard. Felt the stretch of skin pocketed across his free hand, clenching and unclenching, beginning to chill from the steadily increasing rain dotting his shoulders. The shadow of pain forced him back to the moment. He banished a bloody Archive menagerie to one of so many boxes hastily labeled ‘repressed’ and really wished he didn’t work in a building where the next question was relevant. “Did you check the door to the tunnels?” 

“Of course I checked the trapdoor!” Martin snapped. “I’m not an idiot.” 

“Not what I said.” Tim chanced half a step forward and was nearly side swiped by a bus. Fine. He would wait. 

“No – I’m sorry.” Tim winced at the hearty sniff as Martin tried to clear his blocked nose. “I just – nobody has seen him. The lock isn’t broken or anything and Elias isn’t here. Rosie said she can't unlock his office so I can’t exactly search his desk.” Martin’s voice was pitching up to dangerous octaves again. Tim was preparing to run for election with the sole purpose of improving crosswalk timing. He tried to distract himself with a muted pride for Martin's willingness to search Elias’ office as Martin carried on. “Unless the walls are moving I’m supposed to believe something hurt Jon and he snuck out without telling anybody.”

Martin's hypothetical stuck through Tim’s fluttering concern, viciously pinning the frantic beating of his heart like some struggling winged thing might be stuck for display. All the closed doors, the suspicious glances – an unexpected burst of frustration made an unbecoming pass at Tim’s mounting concern. “Would you put it past him?”

Martin went deadly quiet. Well fuck. “Mart–”

“Look, even if he did,” Martin said, obliterating Tim’s ill formed half apology, “he needs our help.”

“No, you’re right.” Tim conceded firmly. Took less than a half seconds retrospect to conclude this was not the time for airing grievances. Copious amounts of blood at play or not, under no circumstances would Tim take out the conversation he needed to have with Jon on Martin. Across the intersection, the light finally, finally changed to yellow. Tim resolved silently to apologize better after the crisis was... averted. Dealt with. Something. “I’m almost to you, okay? We can deal with this together.” 

“Okay,” Martin said, sounding miserable. 

“Great. Good,” Tim said, taking the zebra stripes two at a time. He hit the pavement running. Rounding the corner, he swerved to avoid a stumbling pedestrian. “I’m hanging up now, go ask Sasha to – oh shit, sorry – Jon?!”

Tim had thrown a hand out to keep from accidentally shoving the unbalanced figure to the ground, his fingers brushing their sleeve. The weird material of Jon’s favorite jacket pushed recognition past Tim’s lips before other details – height: short, hair: dark curly mess – began to register. Jon had the same damn jacket for years. It was heavy and checkered and hideous and indisputably Jon. Peripherally Tim could hear Martin calling from the phones tinny speakers, concerns melding with street sounds as Tim tried to reconcile the past minutes ballooning fears with the decidedly un-missing Jon in front of him. 

Jon looked _awful_ , and Tim was right there next to him when a swarm of aggressively parasitic worms made a meal of the both of them. The blood Martin had been on about wasn’t particularly eye catching on Jon’s green sweater but the dark stain was undeniably beading bright red over Jon’s shaking fingers. It wasn't raining hard enough for the sheen across his forehead to be anything but sweat, his glasses tilted precariously and heavily smudged. Without his cane he was listing hard to the right, each labored breath bringing him closer to folding over entirely. For all his heavy breathing, his cheeks were devoid of color as Jon leaned into Tim’s hasty shoulder grab. 

“You’re bleeding.” Tim said dumbly. Not his finest appraisal of a situation. The appearance of Jon out of the halls of the Institute met with a disbelieving ricochet of _not dead not dead thank fuck not dead_ and spun so fast Tim was nearing dizzy.

“Yes,” Jon said faintly, taking a stumble step into the wall for support. “It would appear so.” 

Jon’s voice broke the paralysis his unexpected arrival had over Tim. Okay, mystery one solved. Now to deal with… this. Distantly, Martin yelling from the phone shuffled into place amid a rapidly developing list of priorities. Martin cut off the moment Tim replied. 

“Hey – I found him.” Tim ducked his head, but getting a good look at the injury was nigh impossible one handed. Jon curled over another inch, pulling away from Tim’s grip towards the brick front of the apartment complex where they had nearly collided. “He's..." Tim faltered, trying to sum up Jon's state in the least number of syllables. "Alive. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” 

However quickly he rationalized it, Tim knew hanging up on a confused and desperate Martin was already twisting into one more horrible experience to add to his collection. Tim grimly figured he could make it up to him by keeping Jon from bleeding out on the pavement, rapidly darkening under the rainfall. In the four seconds it took Tim to finish his call, Jon had managed to stagger a few paces further. He left a thin, incriminating streak across a selection of brick behind him. Wincing, Tim maneuvered quickly to cut Jon off. 

“Where you headed boss man?” 

Jon’s eyebrows pinched, the same surprised scrunch when Tim sent him memes. A rare moment of pure Jon confusion Tim usually had to work a lot harder for, one that recently took to flattening into ill disguised glares. But there was no follow up frown, and no confidence in Jon’s halting reply. “The… clinic?” 

“The clinic is that way.” Tim said, nodding over Jon’s shoulder to the last block. Ah. Another masterful observation. The absolute abruptness of this entire encounter had robbed him of intelligent recourse – he needed to do – something. 

Jon reached a similar conclusion, turning with with agonizing slowness. Tim hovered awkwardly, watching Jon’s attempt to favor both his injured side and bad leg. “Well. Thank you.” Leaning heavily on the wall Jon started back, over his own faint snail trail of blood. 

Of all things it was those three words, riding on a gasp, that snapped Tim back to action. It said something about their relationship that a ‘thank you’ from his boss was more out of place than a trail of blood, but exactly what Tim didn’t have time to speculate. “Fuck sake Jon – let me help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeahhh i'll cop it, that was a bit abrupt. for anyone staring down the 1/3 chapters, istg its all written - tis but the transference of handwritten to computer screen thwarting my progress ! mayhaps some minor editing ! that's a thing people do, or so i'm told. 
> 
> next chapter is partially from jons pov bc how else am I supposed to write whump ??? we just don't know.
> 
> questions? comments? u kno the drill.
> 
> ~~~or find me on tumbles under the same name @nothingwrongwiththerain :D I'm definitely not shy at all nope


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I desperately want to hold to posting once a week and I had this Great Big Idea of swapping characters pov's a chapter at a time instead of mid-chapter cause it was clunky af. means more chapters, but they shorter. yeet. 
> 
> tl;dr swapping to jons pov ! 
> 
> ...him struggle

John was having a panic attack. Had been since the door that hadn’t wasn’t again. Since “ruining ignorance prematurely” became a violent addition to his numerous concerns. Since he took an imperfect glance at what Michael’s – hands? – had done to his shirt and clapped a hand over his mouth and stomach. He had been too cowardly to do anything but grab a hand towel from the breakroom and hope the wash worn material would hold him together until he reached the clinic. 

Panic attack was the reason he couldn’t catch his breath, why he was dizzy, why he was inching closer to the certainty of an untimely, anonymous but not altogether surprising demise on the rain splattered pavement. Nothing to do with the razor stripe burn carved across his side. Harsh reminder and consolation prize proof from the flourish of a thin, thin wrist, proportions all wrong, all of this was wrong – but Tim – Tim wasn’t wrong, no. Jon knew with certainty he was bleeding. Could feel unfamiliar heat and tacky red in the creases between his aching fingers, tight and trembling. 

Where Tim had materialized from was another mystery entirely; one that didn’t merit investigation or resolution. No, convincing Tim to leave was Jon’s new critical goal. It wasn’t safe, he wasn’t safe. If the clinic was that way, all Jon had to do was keep moving. 

Tim was speaking, but the words were carelessly mangled by the wheezing in Jon’s chest. If pressed, Jon was fairly certain the phrase ‘help’ featured prominently. Infuriating to be sure, this exact scenario had necessitated dodging Martin on his way out of the Archives. Jon tried to help Helen, look what that accomplished. But he couldn’t look, didn’t look. Saw the red, where it didn’t belong and stopped looking. To put his staff in the same red risk was unacceptable. 

In his stumbling haste Jon had abandoned his cane. The hurt was different down the Institute steps, adrenaline over Martin’s ringtone hastened his retreat, fighting with the phone to enable silent mode. The cane was hardly a sacrifice; London was filled with buildings to lean on. The one he was using now, for instance. Rough and off colored by pollution, inert edges pulling at all his loose threads. 

Unfortunately, the helpfulness of such a wall was also aiding Tim’s campaign to keep Jon in his line of sight. Unacceptable. He couldn’t bring Tim down with him, again - one set of shared scars was excessive. Jon found desperately clutching at that hot spark of shame more difficult by the second, intent smothered by the pathetic want for half a second’s weight off his protesting leg. When Tim’s hand reached across his peripheral, the resulting flinch nearly sent Jon to the ground. 

“Don’t need...help.” Jon managed around a shallow inhale. 

“Clearly.” Tim caught up in a grand total of two steps, hand coming to rest on Jon’s tilting shoulder. The touch was light, decidedly cautious and precisely beyond what Jon was capable of handling. 

_“Stop!”_ The insistence passed Jon’s lips in an inadvertent rush. Why didn’t Tim understand? How was he supposed to explain? Rapidly, the barely there press of Tim’s fingers joined the barrage of tactile sensations; another physical element inflicted and outside Jon’s control, unpredictable and he didn’t like it, didn’t want this, he couldn’t – he didn’t – he had to get away. 

Between Tim and the wall, the solid block of dampening brick behind Jon seemed the least confining of his options. Following the trajectory of his flinch backwards bought him a couple of inches and cost him a moment of vision. Head dipping at the swirling pressure, Jon’s second step sent him directly into the wall. His shoulder collided and glanced off the building. 

Jarring his arm invited a host of new unpleasantness to the forefront of the whole twisted experience. Jon had to lock his jaw to keep bile rising in his throat from making an appearance on Tim’s shoes. The red flecking off his fingers had already deposited a few discolored spots Jon knew his assistant would not be pleased with.

“Jon.” 

Angry, stern, upset – Jon couldn’t pick one, couldn’t categorize to come up with a response, couldn’t do anything but desperately swallow the saliva flooding his mouth. He hurt, so many different kinds of hurt and he could barely keep all of it in. From the dull throbbing of his leg to the air catching in his chest to a hot and messy pain down his side. Choking down the rising nausea, the first ragged breath Jon could pull was depressingly akin to a cut off sob. 

The entire affair might have gone unnoticed despite the lack of personal space, if traffic hadn’t cleared for the entirety of his audible whimper. Tim stilled. Jon pinched his eyes shut, guilt crawling over his skin like the intrepid rain drops that caught in his hair, slipped down the back of his neck. 

“Look,” Tim stepped closer, penning Jon in but mindful not to touch. “You don’t want my help, fine.” This did not sound fine, but Jon wasn’t in a place to point that out. Not when he couldn’t lift his head properly, or catch his breath. “But if I leave you to... whatever it is you think you’re doing,” What was he doing? Jon wasn’t sure he could say anymore. His side _really_ hurt. “Martin would kill me.” 

Adrenaline in quantities Jon thought were thoroughly depleted burst back like an overfilled balloon, snapping his head up and widening eyes to the limit. No – he left Martin at the Institute. He didn’t want to, he was sorry, Jon thought, for something. If Tim knew the answer, he wasn’t sharing. He was talking about something else entirely. 

“You have two choices.”

Jon sincerely believed choice had not been a part of this equation since the ground took to tipping at unfair angles, but Tim didn’t need to know that. Especially if he was threatening to call Martin, if the appearance of a phone in Tim's hand was indicative of anything. Jon could feel his heartbeat in his skull, a cramp building in his clenched fingers. Unfazed by the rain Tim fixed Jon with a stare, waiting for confirmation. Jon nodded jerkily. Best avoid opening his mouth if he could help it. 

“You let me help you to the clinic or I call 999.” 

“You wouldn’t.” It would seem disbelief overload any physical limitation Jon hoped to impose, words cut and scraped up by his tight throat. 

Tim crooked an eyebrow, the hand surreptitiously hovering a few inches from Jon’s increased list unlocking the phones screen. 

“Don’t–” Stumbling over his words and the pavement, Jon prevented the call and deposited himself soundly in Tim’s grasp in the same stuttering movement. Tim was sturdier and warmer than the reluctant wall, hands quick to catch him as Jon’s uncooperative everything refused to hold his weight. Jon’s side flared again, whiting out the rest of his protest as he bit down on another embarrassing whimper. 

Clenching his jaw at Tim’s rapid adjustment, Jon knew if he had air to whine he ought to apologize. “S’rry.” 

“What?” Tim asked, not sparing a glance as he stooped to fold Jon’s arm around his shoulder. A corner of Jon’s mind unhindered by logical processions began rationalizing how the height difference wasn’t as comical as it could have been; tempered in ridiculousness because Jon had Martin as a reference point. At six foot Tim was still four inches shorter than Martin. This was important, but Jon couldn’t say why. He was sorry? For something. Hunching like this couldn’t be comfortable for Tim. 

“S’rry...m’ not very tall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and you thought the last chapter ended abruptly. 
> 
> coming to a screen near you: a return to Tim's pov for chptr3 + the appearance of our extremely wonderful & stressed cinnamon roll taken human form: Martin Kartin Blackwood
> 
> too short ? too slow ? c o m m e n t  
> nothing will change but the world will know of my many, many crimes


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no excuse for what i've done here. enjoy. *throws gay confetti* 
> 
> also --> I have -12 knowledge of how A&E works 0_0 my sincerest apologies to those familiar with healthcare. u are wonderful and the inconsistencies / inaccuracies I have thrown in my fanfic cauldron to further the plot are unintended and do not reflect irl systems !  
> \----------------------  
> tl;dr  
> lets all assume I don't know what I'm talking about wrt clinics in the UK and go from there! cheers :D

“Alright,” Tim said, adjusting his grip as Jon continued to mumble apologies. The majority of what Jon was saying since he slumped in his arms didn't make sense - then again, Tim wasn’t sure what he expected from Jon in his current state. One thing at a time. A tight gasp reached his ear, neatly matched Jon’s leg giving out. “Careful - I got you.” 

“D’nt... dn’t wanna be got.” 

If Jon hadn’t sounded truly upset at the prospect, Tim might have laughed. “Okay, that’s...” Jon tipped his head up, eyes huge behind his rain splattered glasses. With his mouth open around his unsteady breathing, Tim could see the indents where Jon had bitten through the chapped skin of his lips. “...fine. That’s fine.” Tim finished lamely, shuffling to avoid putting pressure on Jon’s side. Tim tried to guide him forward a step, but Jon’s shoulders had tensed under the steadily soddening material of his jacket. 

Tim tried another angle. “I won’t let anybody get you?” 

The curious mix of surprise and relief that played on Jon’s features at Tim's promise was hard to take in. Well. Relief, he'd hoped for - it was the edge of surprise that hurt. _Then again._ Tim glanced at the arm Jon had barred over his side as he gently pulled him into an unsteady gait. Hard to write off Jon’s waspish recalcitrance with the evidence decorating his side. An unattributed quote itched in the back of Tim’s skull, red and easy to read between the lines of Jon’s bloody fingers. _Sometimes being paranoid is having all the facts._

The three grey blocks to the clinic saw Jon increasingly disoriented. Tim managed to keep at least one of Jon’s feet under him; keeping his attention was a different, rapidly worrying matter. Relevance of incoming commentary served a directly line to Jon’s worsening symptoms – color drained from his face was dripping into his disgruntled muttering. By the time they reached the clinic Tim somehow knew less about what might have happened and more about the government's inaccuracy at predicting weather patterns and the annual percentage of forgotten umbrellas. The increasingly deluge did serve as a difficult prompt to ignore. Both of them were soaking through by the time the walk in clinic was in sight. 

“While that is fascinating,” Tim conceded, tone forcibly light. “You still haven’t told me what happened. Need you to work with me here boss.”

Jon’s shoulder sloped further as Tim kicked at the door with a squeaking shoe. 

“But m’ not at w’rk.” Jon insisted. Any further complaint was cut short by the ragged breath that caught in his throat, teeth clicking when Tim hauled him over the threshold. 

Well. Jon wasn’t strictly wrong in his assessment. The waiting room for A&E bore no resemblance to the rows on rows of dusty boxes Jon sequestered himself among. At least in the Archives the overhead lights cast warm shadows, fine motes and particles prone to catching and swirling lazily amid the beams when disturbed. Retained a hint of the library aesthetic Tim left behind in research. If he were feeling charitable, Tim could grant Martin the low fi appeal. 

The A&E waiting room was as appealing as an overcrowded bus stop, a train station with a broken leaderboard. Disquieting impatience under stark fluorescent buzzing. The shared pressure of transience, anonymity and intent of shared destinations was pervasive – and the same daggers were glared when Tim attempted to surpass the line. He was quick to discover new patients, regardless of the injuries severity, would be subjected to the line like everyone else. Further insistence fizzled out at Jon’s terrified expression, the beginning of a bid to escape telegraphing across his frame when the collective eyes of the room turned their way. 

Fuming, Tim took his place behind a girl with red hair clutching her arm to her chest, and a gentleman tearing into a pack of tissues as he hacked and coughed. Tim took care to steer well around them, uncaring of the dripping trail he and Jon were squelching across the tile. The attention Jon was shrinking from had worsened his breathing but Tim couldn’t think of a damn thing to say that wouldn’t break the hushed murmuring of the waiting room further. 

Trying for an encouraging hum, Tim gave a light squeeze to Jon’s shoulder and propped him on his hip in a one armed side hug. Jon wasn’t heavy, per se, but skirting puddles and a particularly nefarious traffic cone on the way over hadn’t done the worm holes in Tim’s shoulder any favors. Fishing for his phone with his free hand, Tim had to scroll through a veritable onslaught of texts and six missed calls to respond to Martin.

 _At A &E. Don’t worry_

The reply was instantaneous. 

_Which clinic_

For a fleeting second Tim debated if sending the address was wise. Martin didn’t like hospitals. 

His moment musing was thoroughly quashed when the banner ‘ _Martin's typing..._ ’ delivered an unexpectedly powerful jolt of fear on top of the baseline concern curling his stomach. For no reason Martin’s perpetually sunny smile could portent, on a deeply primal level Tim did not want to know the consequence of leaving him on read. 

Fumbling slightly ,Tim sent the gps pin of their location and lost view of his screen in the same 5 seconds when Jon lurched to the side. 

“Wh’re you... whas that ‘bout?” Jon managed, leaning across Tim’s torso and nearly tangling their legs. Damp curls brushed the base of Tim’s neck as Jon’s worsening list pulled him sideways.

“Mar’ins coming?” 

Given the tragic predictability of Jon’s reactions to Martin related anything – an unending cycle of ire, spite, confusion and dismissal – Tim couldn’t be blamed for his flattened incredulity at Jon’s concerned tone. 

“Yes?” 

The resulting whine could have been written off to shock if Jon didn't nearly clock Tim when his head shot up. “I didn’t tell ‘im.” 

Tim blinked residual rainwater from his eyes, nonplussed by Jon's growing distress. “Didn’t tell him what?” 

“Got stabbed. Di’nt want... him to worry.” 

Tim’s processing stalled out at Jon’s emphatic emphasis concerning Martin inspired guilt, tone of this concern blatantly overshadowing the admittance of a literal stab wound. The grinding of mental gears nearly drowned out the receptionist behind the counter calling for next in line. 

“Next. Over here, next.”

Right. Next. Dealing with whatever reality Tim was slipping into where Jon justified horrifyingly poor life choices on how they impacted Martin’s feelings would have to wait.

The attendant behind the counter wore the bland professionalism of a new hire already disenchanted with the system, quickly flipping to a new intake form. “Nature of your visit?” 

“Blood.”

Tim nearly startled at Jon’s matter of fact declaration. He hadn’t expected any contribution from him, much less a mildly ominous and self evident one. As if in accordance to Tim’s presumption of disinterest, Jon completely abandoned the nurses weary sigh when the phone in Tim’s hand started buzzing.

“He’s – been cut. Bleeding pretty heavily.” Tim said, gesturing awkwardly at Jon’s side with his cell. The improvised juggling of Archivist and vibrating phone did not go according to plan: Jon’s newfound infatuation with Martin’s incoming text messages sent him leaning across Tim and away from the counter. Indoors and away from the suspicions of the rain seemed to have given Jon a second wind. His efforts were inexpertly effective as Tim’s shoes started to lose traction on the damp floor.

The receptionist turned to his screen with a disinterested click of the mouse, unimpressed or uninteresting in Tim’s plight. “How did it happen?” 

Tim was as curious as the nurse wasn’t, but he knew better than to chase that instinct. The less questions the better, and ‘stab wound’ invited a host of inquires. The kind backed by paperwork and police statements. Damn. He should have come up with a passable fiction on the walk over. Rain and Jon ramblings had served as a powerful distraction, a flavor of panic Tim didn’t recognize started buzzing in time with his phone. 

With that brewing away, Tim had no expectations whatsoever when Jon screwed up his face and announced to the nurse with unmasked frustration: “Knife hands.” 

The nurse, to his credit, didn’t do more than pull open a drawer to collect a form. Even upside down Tim could see a faded over copied logo of police reports he collected. Tim found a smattering of reasonable words filling his mouth with absolutely no clue where he was headed: “Yup, you did have a knife in your hands!”

“BIG knife ha–” Jon started, slurring. 

“BREAD knife.” Tim cut in, squeezing Jon’s shoulder and jostling him subtly. With his bad leg Jon’s balance was abysmal. The following hip check made him wobble and nod in inadvertent agreement.

“Freak accident, won’t be leaving him alone in the kitchen again!” 

_Why. Why is humor my defense mechanism._ Tim covered with an apologetically sincere smile, tucking Jon closer and flashing his phone to distract him. Deep down a small, formerly intact segment of Tim's sanity permanently fractured. This was his life now. He was using toddler tactics on his boss, in the middle of A&E, looking like they both climbed out of a pool and the continued sanctity of a police free evening was in the hands of a studiously unenthusiastic front desk attendant. 

Thankfully, the man behind the counter wasn’t being paid enough to care. He returned the form to the desk with an uninspired click, eyes drifting back to his screen. “Is he currently bleeding?” 

“Pretty sure, but did you want me to check?” Tim said, flare of annoyance tackling all the good work of his smile. Jon was nearing success in his campaign for Tim’s phone and glacial pace of the receptionist's asinine questions had hit one more nerve. 

“No – I’ll mark him for next available. Name?”

“Jonathan Sims.” 

Jon squinted up at Tim at the sound of his name, pausing his pursuit to mutter darkly about yellow doors. Wonderful. Tim would take that over any further engagement with the A&E staff that wasn’t strictly necessary. 

“This won’t be long, right?” 

“No more than twenty minutes. I will need some details.”

“You need more than somebody bleeding out.” Tim said, not bothering to check his volume. Twenty minutes? If Jon took off from the Institute near the time of Martin’s call, an additional 20 minutes was sufficient cause for a terse response. The receptionist displayed his first glimmer of humanity, eyes flicking sharply to meet Tim’s vocal displeasure. 

“Sir, patients are seen in order of –”

Any further conversation was put on hold when six foot four of one Martin K Blackwood made a real attempt to remove the clinic door from its hinges on his way in. 

“JON. Tim – thank god I was so – oh you’re hurt, let me see...” 

The nurse was lost behind Martin’s broad frame, large hands fluttering over Jon and never landing for more than half a second. Jon had tensed at the sound of Martin’s voice, peeking over his shoulder when Martin found the edge of the jacket and tugged lightly. 

Relief Tim couldn’t articulate hit like a disorganized box of statements. For the first time since catching hold of Jon in the rain Tim let out a full breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It hadn’t consciously occurred until now, but the muscle memory of pulling Jon along twisting passageways had begun writhing, another layer of fear he didn't want to admit to. The walk over viciously paralleled the same isolating horror a lack of Martin resulted in. There was no telling what might have happened if they didn't get separated in the tunnels - and Tim didn’t have room in his heart to blame his friend - but proximity to Martin held no memory of failure. That alone provided an inordinate amount of comfort. 

Jons reaction to the appearance of another Archival assistant was harder to read. A rapid fire series of emotions Tim knew Jon took pains to mask were fighting it out in the crease of his eyebrows, erratic tensing of his jaw. 

With a pained inhale Jon struggled to speak. “Mar’in? I don’t– you sh’dnt–”

“Shhh no, it's okay,” Martin said, pulling his sleeve over his hand to soak up some of the rainwater dripping down Jon’s face. It was a good thing Tim had adjusted his hold at Martins arrival – Jon released his white knuckle grip without warning, hand catching Martin’s sweater. Wincing, Tim waited for the inevitable shove and squirm.

It didn’t happen. Tim tried and failed not to stare at the absolutely baffling display taking place approximately 4 inches from his nose. Martin breaking into Jon’s physical space without hesitation and Jon accepting - no, _leaning into_ \- the hand that was, for all intensive purposes, cupping his cheek. 

“Sir.”

With Martin and Jon locked in an inexplicable staring contest, a degree of quiet momentarily reigned and the nurses calls for their attention could be heard. Without a single reasonable avenue to explain what the ever-loving fuck was happening, Tim opted for the the first thing that popped into his head. Because why the fuck not. At this point it was as good an answer as any. 

“Sorry,” Tim said cheerfully, “boyfriend!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl, I did make myself laugh, so who is the real winner here. 
> 
> thank for coming along on the ride !! This ended up being fun despite scrapping 70% of what I had and rewriting all of it in a journal and then retyping it and re editing- this is fun right ? I do this for fun ?? 
> 
>   
> ~[insert traditional plea for comments to mask desperate validation cravings]~ 
> 
> take care !


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BUCKLE UP BUTTERCUPS WE HAVE ARRIVED to begin a balancing act along the Hurt / Comfort ratio i strive to provide
> 
> altho this is so fantastically self indulgent at this point,,, maybe just,,, yeah. 
> 
> also! 
> 
> CW: (a little one) for a lot of negative self talk. the tired man is stressin'

Jon had done something wrong. He knew it, as fervently as the heavy buzzing of his ears filled his head with rushing static. Set the world tilting even further than the deepening angle of Tim’s shoulder. 

Wrong – then righted by the cool hand on his cheek, holding steady the gaps in time Jon was tripping over. Martin shouldn’t be here but he said it was okay, he said, then–

Jon did something wrong. Why else would Martin fluster, hand falling to round on Tim with an exasperated twist of his rain blurred face? If Jon could just focus on the garbled sounds from his surroundings. Excuses piled instead; how remaining standing pushed and pulled at untethered thoughts. Errant inputs screamed, pressure traveling in shuddering bursts from his burning side to his protesting legs demanding he take a seat. But Tim worked so hard to haul him to the clinic. 

The clinic. His destination traveled around Martin’s backpedaling in an unbecoming stretch of halogen and hard plastic. Or fluorescent? Jon dropped his gaze from Martin’s quickly to squint elsewhere, find an answer in the hostile light reflecting aggressively off the water puddled around his shoes. Rain pushed Jon down, Tim pulled him up with the strong arm uncomfortably stretching his jacket. Tim was probably sick of hauling him around. Probably sick of a lot of the things Jon did, because Jon did something wrong.

Yet Tim was sharing his shoulder, taking turns at the truth while Martin’s mouth moved fast around an impassioned series of syllables split between Tim and the receptionist. The words were twisting, tight things Jon couldn’t grasp. When he and Tim arrived at the clinic Jon had tried to put them in order and answer questions, but he did that wrong too.

Jon bit his lip, peeling and sore, unable to distract from the wrong answers, wrong decisions, wrong expressions, wrong turns – and his side, now that was wrong too. Blood on the outside, somehow the wrong answer? Tim wanted Jon to answer questions and stop closing doors and not follow him to the café on 32nd if he wasn’t going to order any lunch and when Jon put the shape of the wrong thin sharp hands out loud–

Tim interrupted him. Twice.

Which was… fine? In all the ways Jon’s actions the last month hadn’t been. At least this was a lie they could share, if Jon could puzzle out exactly how a bread knife factored into the equation. The skin under his teeth broke. Jon told himself the sting of the fresh split was why his eyes began to water. Not fear of another evolving equation he didn’t have the means to solve, built to be sequestered and analyzed and hope hope hope the tattered details would keep fast blade fingers from pulling him past the new door. Open and shut case. There and then not. A disappearance like his wouldn’t make the news.

One of Martin’s hands wandered blindly towards him, coming to a rest gently on the back of Jon’s arm, steadying the hand Jon had wound in the cream colored material of Martin’s cable knit sweater. Jon desperately poured all he had into sorting that out. One: Martin’s grip was careful where Jon’s was reckless. Two: he was steady, Jon was trembling. Three: the touch bordered on inadvertent, where Jon clung like a child. One more wrong. 

Jon’s breath caught in a painful inhale. Was he wrong to be scared? Nobody else was counting doors, he didn’t think. Couldn’t tell. Was that what he did wrong? What cost him Martin’s initial anxious attention –soft, close, careful, kind, everything Jon wasn’t. Was it the fear dug into his ragged gasps, too loud for this people pressed space? If they knew he was frightened, each panting breath a harsh echo chamber for the terror filling his lungs, replacing the flat bright air – was that wrong?

Jon’s teeth clicked as his mouth snapped shut. Quiet. If he could keep quiet. The rapid conversation Tim and Martin were having under the rushing murmur in Jon's head was directed at the receptionist and as long as Jon didn’t interrupt – never could keep a comment to himself, annoying child, just stop talking for once – he wouldn’t cause any more trouble. A different worry, well-worn and easily found papering the walls of his mistakes stuck its fingers in his heart, digging around for a reason. Was he in trouble?

He was certainly having trouble keeping his feet planted on the slick tiles. The white and off white pattern Jon blinked in and out of focus was basic and dull and interrupted by hardly any color. The dots of red didn’t look very intentional at all. Not like the blurry words Tim was cutting from the air by his ear, thankfully louder than the half breaths Jon was stifling badly, chest hitching.

The small, so badly concealed movement caught Martins eye. He was half turned back when a comment from behind the counter, layered in an arrogant monotone and apathy, made Martin jerk back, voice raised to match Tim. 

That stung different, deeper and slower than the hot fast pulsing aches of his body. Patient worry picking over Jon’s failures greedily read the lines of tension across Martins shoulders, searching for blame, the mistake, the trouble.

Oh.

The hand Jon had clutching Martins sweater was still tangled in the cloud colored fabric. Martin hadn’t pulled away completely, but the material was stretched slightly. Roiling guilt from holding so tight – don’t cling Jon – was surpassed in a rush by the garish horror of the handprint Jon realized he was leaving. A besmirched smear taken from his leaking side and smeared rudely on a blank canvas. Wrong.

Letting go as delicately as possible was a trial. Still, Jon was able with effort to draw his arm back to the tacky mess on his side. It hurt. From unbending his fingers to pushing down the lump in his throat to staying quiet when Tim straightened his spine abruptly in response to another comment beyond Jon’s line of sight. 

The steeper angle pulled at his side. Unintentional, Jon was sure, but it was harder to stay silent. The forcibly shallow half breaths started to catch at his sternum, pushed back up with no relief tied to the action. His stomach seized the opportunity to being turning unpleasantly. Fuck. He had to do something. Now, or risk a mess and cause more trouble. 

As gradually as he could bear Jon pushed up to the tips of his toes, desperate for any measure of respite from the increased height difference. The inches helped, sort of. He had more space to breath, could focus on deeper, quieter gasps to combat the encroaching dizzy spots. Jon managed a miserable ten seconds before shaking took root in his knees: spread hungrily towards his ankle, up his hip.

He couldn’t keep this up, but he had to try. Tim and Martin were engaged in a potent back and forth with the nurse Jon couldn’t hear as his shallow gasps grew ineffectual. He needed – he needed Tim to let go.

Any air he had for asking was long trapped in his burning lungs. He didn’t want to interrupt, but the toe of his shoe was starting to slide. An ill forming plan centered around tapping Martin on the back was thrown out the top floor window when Tim, with a vitriolic arm gesture, hoisted Jon up another inch.

Jon yelped. The unexpected motion stretched his torn skin, a loose seam ripping to drag hot pain over his raw nerves. He didn’t have it in him to be embarrassed when Tim quickly lowered him back down. Didn’t have time to stop the soles of his feet from landing hard. Bad leg buckling, Jon barely had the wherewithal to slap a hand over his mouth as his stomach revolted.

Sticky and stale, the smell of blood hit Jon as he doubled over. What he collected in his palm from the walk over hadn’t all ended up on Martin’s sweater. Didn’t matter. He couldn’t risk moving his hand, choking back the rising nausea. He would not be sick. Not now, not later and not in front of a room full of people.

Thoroughly preoccupied, Jon hardly tracked Tim releasing his arm or the hands clasping his shoulders or what amounted to a short drag away from reception. From one painful blink to the next he went from doubled up in line to seated. Jon folded over jerkily, shutting his eyes tight. Wrong. Did something wrong and he couldn’t even figure out what and his stomach hurt his side hurt he didn’t want to be here and he didn’t want to be alone and he didn’t want them to worry because _he did something wrong._

A hand, slow and insistent, tugged at the palm sealing his mouth. Jon barely had the strength to stop it, tiny shake of his head dislodging a few messy curls. He had no words, no way explain or disagree or stop the formless pitchy sounds crawling up his throat.

Gradually, Jon became aware of pressure on his shoulders, pulling him forward slightly. Reflexively glancing up from beneath his lashes, Jon saw Martin kneeling in front of him. Jon tried to shake his head again, against the torrent of _wrong bad mistake trouble wrong _but he couldn’t. Martin was close, impossibly close – one large hand finding its way to the back of Jon’s neck. Slowly he wrapped Jon in a hug, guiding him to rest his forehead on Martins shoulder.__

____

____

Jon couldn’t help it. His stubbornly stiff spine and fused shoulders developed a network of cracks, rigid conviction at brutal odds with the weight off his leg, the gradual settling of his stomach. The steady grounding presence of being surrounded, not by doors or rain or strangers, but Martin was overwhelming.

“Shhhh, you’re okay. Couple minutes, that’s all.”

One of Jon’s gasps, unsteady through parted fingers, snagged and stayed firmly in his chest. He couldn’t– he didn’t deserve– not this.

Martin didn’t stop, didn’t chastise him for not continuing the very simple act of breathing. He continued in a low murmur, steady stream of assurances.

“You’re gonna be fine, s’okay. You’re safe.” 

Jon wasn’t safe. How could he be? He couldn’t talk. He couldn’t run. Couldn’t fight even when he wasn’t falling apart and wrong and bleeding and in trouble.

“Tim and I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Martin’s calm, unconcerned statement of fact broke a measure of restraint Jon long ago assumed was a permanent fixture; cut a string he thought was painted into the background. With a shuddering exhale the tension locking him in place released and Jon crumpled. Shoulders dropping, he drove his face into Martin, burrowing close in one breath. If Martin pushed him away – that was fine. One moment, one breath enveloped and away from everything else would have to do.

Martin didn’t shove him away. Quite the opposite. With a soft tut Martin pulled him closer, the hand on Jon’s back moving in time with Jon’s shaky attempt to fix his breathing. Slowly Jon peeled the hand off his mouth, tentatively taking back the already ruined handful of sweater and holding on with everything he had left. 

Time, traditionally a viscous and contrary thing in Jon’s book, continued its bad behavior when Martin shifted and Jon recognized a single word question asked repeatedly. That Martin’s hands had moved, his voice was louder, Jon could breathe again – it all happened gradually and came together in the same moment.

“Jon?”

He nearly dropped his hand, but no, Martin didn’t sound angry. Worried, perhaps. Jon should – needed to stop that. Last thing he wanted was for Martin to worry. Jon had to respond, but his voice was off somewhere with coherent thoughts and properly working limbs. A nod would have to suffice.

Raising his head was more of a production than Jon anticipated. Thankfully Martin noticed his struggle, brought a few careful fingers to help tip his chin up.

“Hey,” Martin said, searching Jon’s vacant expression hopefully. 

Jon… didn’t know what to do with that. He expected annoyance, frustration. He did something wrong – there was a bloody handprint on the sweater between them for gods sake – but Martin wasn’t holding any of the disappointment Jon deserved on his face, in the gentle touch keeping Jon from listing too far. Concern, yes, but any frustration from the front desk debate had been scrubbed dry, his lips twisted apologetically.

As near as Jon could tell at least. The constellations of raindrops on his glasses took to interrupting what limited concentration he could muster.

“There you are.”

Jon had rather a few things to say about where he may or may not be considering the past half hour, all of which were effectively vaporized by the small, crooked smile Martin quirked when Jon’s eyes found their way into focus. Opening his mouth produced a dry croak Martin immediately shushed.

“Just wanted to see if you were conscious,” Martin said, giving his shoulder a light squeeze.

His patient concern put eye contact right out of question. Finding an interesting mark on his stained sleeve, Jon began studying it in earnest. Swallowing, he grimaced at the taste, taking stock as awareness crept out of a corner, bruised and weary.

The shaking from prolonged standing had abated, replaced by a tenacious shiver as his clothes continued to drip and cling. He was leaning into Martin’s hands where they framed his shoulders. That was… fine. He had precedent now that when Martin wanted to move him, he would.

Martin misinterpreted the shyness jumping Jon’s capacity for human interaction, brushing loose strands of damp hair back with a soft admonishment. “Hey, none of that.” 

Jon didn’t know what ‘that’ Martin wanted none of, but he had gathered enough to dig deep and force a barely audible, well cracked word past his bloodied lips: 

“Sorry.” 

“What for?” Martin asked softly. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eheheheheh
> 
> whelp Thats All I Have To Say About That. hope u animals are happy w/ the updated chapter count. I've already broken 11k of what was a 5k drabble and re-written the final scene twice. ur all monsters and I am indebted to u for the kudos and comments I so crave. 
> 
> thank y'all for the continued (extremely) verbal support !! I was SHOOK by the all comments last chapter ;-; it means so much <3
> 
> see ya in a week :D 
> 
> (she said, in a staggering display of hubris) (hopefully that won't come back to haunt me)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> greeting and salutes and salutations fellow tma folk 
> 
> i'm never jinxing myself like the last ending comment again howly cats n cows this chapter came for my life BUT tis still THIS WEEK is it not ? so this counts as weekly updates. in my own mind. 
> 
> anywho pls enjoy Tim Having A Time: Part Something Of A Billion

The phrase ‘I need to speak to the manager’ was not one Tim expected to utter at any point in his life. In an instance of painful irony, maybe, or derisive comedic justice. Not in seriousness and blind exasperation. Facing off with the bureaucratic drudgery of the NHS while his rapidly cooling clothes pulled for a measure of attention and his boss decorated the lobby in a fresh coat of red was really just adding to the experience.

“Sir, please lower your voice.” 

Tim pressed a slick hand to the counter as the physical impulse to push past the nurse’s repetitive admonishing tipped dangerously from consideration to viable alternative. He didn’t have time for this. Martin took Jon and left Tim and it was his responsibility to sort this shit out by the fastest means possible. 

For all the good it wouldn’t do Tim considered the merits of scaling the counter and removing the receptionist’s spine. Drop this dipshit at the end of the line and see how he liked it. This would give Tim the chance to ensure Martin had a hold on Jon and promptly succumb to his newest life goal of explosive self combustion to bury the clinic in rubble _because he dropped Jon._

“Honestly, I really hate to inconvenience you like this,” Tim said, willing any flavor of inadvertent inspiration to strike, “if it would be faster I can step outside and call 999. I’m sure the response time from behind you would be fantastic.” 

The nurse, studiously impervious to Tim’s accusations, held fast to the script Tim was well on his way to memorizing. 

“Patients are seen in order of arrival, sir.” 

“You don’t say,” Tim ground out. “Have you considered updating this policy to volume of blood on the floor?” 

The tuneless, aggravated humor was dead on arrival, but what else did he have? The skeletal framework of personality Tim taped together with snappy one liners was proving incapable of holding the weight of Jon’s collapse. 

Splintering structural integrity of his mental state must have shone through the acrid malice Tim was dealing in. With his hands resting limply on the keyboard, the receptionist paused and considered the semi feral Archival Assistant behind the partition. 

“Look,” The receptionist started. Tim leaned forward at the barest hint of professional puppet strings slipping. “The system won’t let me submit a ticket without an address–”

“A real sticking point when someone is actively hemorrhaging,” Tim snapped, hand clutching his phone twitching involuntarily. The edge smacked the counter with a sharp clack. 

“However,” the receptionist persisted, “I can substitute his partners address. For now.”

Tim blinked, stymied. “Part–? OH. Yes. Of course. Yes.”

Past him was a genius. The inherent wisdom of blurting out a fictional relationship built off his coworker’s inexplicable behavior was suddenly a strong contender for best unintended consequence of the year. This shit never worked. 

Fighting to dry his damp phone with a soggy sleeve, Tim hastily dug around in his uber history for Martins address. Focus diverted to scrolling, Tim decided he could accept the rebuttal of his earlier attempt at providing the Institutes street number as a home address. No matter how rarely Jon left, Tim knew his boss lived somewhere on the northern line from the rare occasion they dragged him out for drinks. 

Same line as Martin, come to think of it. Tim remembered Martin saying he was up so early for his first day as an Archival Assistant he spotted Jon commuting, though he hadn’t known him at the time. They would have likely arrived simultaneously if not for the dog. 

_Wonderful_ – a few errant thoughts that had no business gathering provided – _convenient for when they actually start dating._

Tim nearly choked on the apartment number. Amid the multitude of useless background offerings – _should have paid attention, who drops their bleeding friend – wet socks were the absolute fucking worst – what time was it anyways_ – an impersonal contemplation of Jon and Martins future together set up camp utterly unattended.

The cumulative anticlimax of the simplified check in process whirred past at agonizing speed to a montage of all the reasons office romance didn’t work. The nurse eventually ran out of boxes to click and grudgingly informed him Jon would be seen in the next 5 minutes.

“Lovely!” Tim said, not quite ready to forgive. Opening the timer app and scrolling down from a 15 minute nap he never took, Tim started the countdown with an exaggerated tap. “I’ll keep an eye on the clock for you.” 

Tim left the front desk, legs briefly struggling to accept walking required releasing some of the tension every question shoveled on him. It didn’t help Tim’s fondest wish (other than avoiding saying “breadknife incident” within earshot of Martin) involved not strolling over to report the best he could do was ask Jon to bleed less for the next 4 minutes and 52 seconds. 

Locating Jon and Martin swallowed 15 seconds Tim wasn’t thrilled to lose. Objectively he knew they couldn’t have gone far. This was a formality his heart rate petulantly refused to acknowledge, kicking off a harsh tempo over the muted pulse of the waiting room. 

Searching necessitated scanning a space far larger than Tim remembered. The concurrent rows of chairs were intermittently filled with the unwilling captive audience of his recent vocal disagreement. A fair portion pointedly avoided eye contact, others displayed outright hostility. The majority passed his scrutiny with the same drained lack of deference Tim wore.

A patchwork of reactions stitched over the pattern of seats, a conglomeration of body shapes and sizes and outfits and colors and where the hell were Jon and Martin.

Drifting awkwardly towards the closest row of chairs, Tim swallowed uncomfortably, hands clenching and unclenching. As the quarter of a minute stretched towards half an eternity that damn jacket caught his eye, drawing Tim to a slightly confusing tangle of limbs one row over. 

Ah. Of course. Foolish of him to search for two people in two separate chairs. 

Curled tight under Martin’s arm with his knees drawn to his chest, Jon was almost entirely hidden from view. Another few inches and he would be in Martins lap. A sight that, in less life threatening circumstances, Tim would have documented from multiple angles. Unfortunately for his imagined scrapbook, the red handprints – one entrenched in Martin’s sweater, the other spread across the lower half of Jon’s face – turned the blurry impulse to smoke. One more thing to actively try and forget, not remember. 

_If nothing else, the boyfriend agenda wouldn’t be hard to sell_ , the useless, slightly deranged section of his mind offered. Shaking his head, Tim tried to dislodge the persistent distractions. He could do better than a bloodstained silver lining.

Jon noticed him first amid the waiting room shuffle, eyes flicking to track Tim’s approach behind a few dark curls. Tim missed what small effort at movement Jon expended, but it set Martin right off. 

“Nope, you’re staying right here until your names called. Already went over this.” He glanced up, following Jon’s twitchy line of sight. Martin, because he was Martin, scrounged up a weary half smile to combat the worry Tim knew he hid just as poorly. “Hey Tim.” 

“Hey,” Tim parroted back, unsure where he fit in other than outside the frame as Jon huffed and gave up at Martin’s gentle scolding. Turning his phone over for something to do stretched the skin across his fingers, the device heavy and wet. He felt off script, robbed of purpose. 4:26 ticked to 4:25; entirely too long a time to stand and do nothing but listen for Jon’s faint and irregular breathing. 

“...sit down?” 

Amid the general hum of people and thoughts Tim realized too late Martin’s concern had changed trajectory and half the question was lost. Inexpertly aiming to buy processing time, Tim went to drag a hand over his face and nearly punched himself with his phone. Martin eyed him but politely said nothing. _God he was a mess._

Despite a nagging desire to keep Martin’s concern fixed on one of them, Tim decided not to do a disservice to his friend’s perceptiveness. 

“Sorry Martin, what was that?” 

“Do you want to sit down?” Martin asked, carrying the cautious inflection of having asked more than once. “You’re kind of… shaking.”

“No, I’m–” Tim paused in the middle of waving off Martin’s concern. 

Huh. He was.

A razor thin tremor was putting up a fine effort to pull hairline twitches from his hand, wrist, all the way up his arm. At Tim’s hesitation Jon joined Martin in watching him expectantly, eyebrows pinched in evident concern. 

Okay, this was absurd. Tim pushed the jittery hand not holding his phone quickly through his hair, scattering rain. In the growing pause Tim realized the persistent tapping hovering in his peripheral was his damn teeth clicking together at particularly intense shivers. Made sense, he supposed. He was soaked and it certainly wasn’t warm in the waiting room. 

“I’m a little cold,” Tim offered offhand, heels dug in at the ridiculousness of their concern. He glanced at the timer. 3:58. His stupid phone was either broken or malicious or both. Barely a minute had passed and his flaring impatience had no notable impact on the impassive rearrangement of pixels.

Behind Tim a new disaster was raising voices and tempers. Tim pivoted and joined forces with the rest of the crowd to glare when Jon shrunk closer to Martin. For all the effect the same similar treatment had on them, it was better than nothing. 

Commotion handed Tim a reasonable distraction to stomp feeling into his feet and avoid the details of Martin’s scrutiny. Tim wanted – hell, Tim needed Martin with them – but if he couldn’t explain the tremors curling his hands to himself, what was he supposed to tell Martin?

“Tim, I think you should have a seat.” 

“I don’t think we can both fit in your lap Martin.” Tim deadpanned with middling success. The end of his snark pitched sideways when a shiver hitched a ride on the slight edge of hysteria in his chest. Penned in to selling his own joke Tim tried pulling an innocent face and pretended not to notice how he couldn’t quite catch his breath. How it was difficult to read the time display with his cramped fingers spasming. 3:15. Impossible.

“Tim. Sit. Down.”

Tough crowd. With respect to the buzzing in the back of his knees Tim conceded Martin’s point was about to make itself quite visibly known if he didn’t follow directions. Tim wordlessly deposited his stupidly shaky self on Jon’s side of his coworker’s seat cohabitation. The forced grin he flashed Jon to cover the stray panic crawling up his nervous system did little to fend off the restless concern racing to stick in all the damp folds of his clothing. 2:46. Not even halfway. 

Exhaling sharply, Tim planted his elbows on his knees, pinned his eyes to the intake entrance, and started calculating how fast he needed to be to catch the locked door and find help on his own. He owed it to Jon for not listening, not paying attention until–

_Fuck._

Tim didn’t know a person could fit hurt, fear and shock into one desperate cut off sound. Adrenaline to fight a threat spiked and ruptured in the time it took to nail the cry on his action. He hurt Jon, couldn’t tell how badly before Martin pulled Jon over to the chairs and left Tim alone with his horror.

Caving to the distressing curiosity of how badly he hurt Jon, Tim pantomimed cracking his neck to study where Jon was curled on his left. The wait for Jon’s next breath was excruciating, knees blocking a clear view of his skinny chest. In the space of such a breath Tim had fallen from Jon panting in his ear to jarring silence, the instance drawn furious and inadvertent and there was no excuse. Yet the weight of his guilt hadn't bothered to step up and match the bony pressure Jon’s sharp angles pushed into Tim when they were crossing rainy pavement, stood on tile in the reflective light Tim hadn’t used to check on him.

The concerning, comfortingly alive press of Jon was a hollow gap, growing beyond the discolored patch of his shirt that wasn’t drenched. A faint, Jon-shaped outline was left running the length of Tim’s button up, material stuck and shifting over remaining worm plasters. The few bites from the most tenacious parasites that resisted healing. Survive a worm lady and bleed out in a lobby. 2:20. Ridiculous.

“Tim?”

Tim was so wrapped in the roots of his problems Jon’s barely there whisper could have sent him through the roof. As it was, the obvious shaking covered his minor flinch. Small victories. Glancing sideways, Tim tossed a confused look over Jon’s head at Martin, which he returned in kind. 

Jon was leaned forward slightly, peering around Martins arm. Opening and closing his mouth a few times, he gradually gathered the air to speak. “I th’nk... I th’k she’s...sh – watching?” Jon cut off quickly on a shallow inhale, head jerking back. 

Matching the direction of Jon’s darting eyes, Tim easily caught the lady a row over blatantly staring at Martin and Jon’s closeness with critical contempt. 

“Can I help you?” Tim said loudly, harsh annunciation advertising his own disdain at the curl of her sneer. Jon had been through enough today, thanks. Didn’t need some homophobic bullshit on top of actual, valid concerns Tim had been dismissing as paranoia. 

“Tim.” Martin intervened, intent to derail Tim’s pointed conversation starter crystalline clear. 

“Yes, Martin?” Tim replied, immediately regretting his faux politeness at Martin’s tight expression. 

“Maybe not the best time?”

The strain embedded in Martin’s tone was the opposite of calming. Tim was fairly confident holding his phone any tighter would crack the case. A wet plastic crunch to take his mind off the woman who didn’t appear to be experiencing any distress beyond a terminal case of Discriminatory Asshole Disease. 

1:26. All the inexcusable aspect of the afternoon Tim put on the backburner to best the receptionist began the eager process of boiling over. He was bouncing both legs now to hide the tremors, working his jaw around exactly how he would call her out for the smug condescension she wore, derision palpable at a distance. 

Martin noticed. “Please?” 

The small, logical part of Tim that fractured during the check in process was leaking something thick and ugly across his tongue; fuel source and ignition merging into one hazardous spill. This woman was scaring Jon, who couldn’t snap back because Tim fucking dropped him. Because Tim wasn’t paying attention; not to Jon’s injury, not to the weeks leading up. A rightful, infuriating culpability as wet and cloying at his drenched clothes with no possible physical outlet. Until now. 

Tim opened his mouth, hardly registering the weariness across Martin’s frame, so caught up in consequences he almost missed the feather light touch on his wrist. Swallowing the impending tirade with difficultly, Tim looked down to where Jon was pinching at his sleeve. Well, trying to at least. Jon was having a hard time with their combined shaking, near synchronized shivering. 

Side by side the circular scars on their hands stood out twofold, subtle clash of similarities and differences. Matched in frequency, rough edges, patternless progression marching up wrists; mismatched by skin tone and how Tim’s scars lay flush with the plane of his hand where Jon’s absent scratching left ridges and valleys. 

“Don’t.” Jon said softly. Not soft like a request, like Martin might. Warning soft, words scattered fragments of a broken truth he was trying to hide. “Not... worth it.”

Tim was close to gagging on his anger, didn’t have a damn thing to say in response to a markedly more lucid Jon. Jon continued with a small shake of his head. 

“M’not worth it.” 

Tim’s phone alarm went off. 

Jon pulled his hand back so fast Tim barely saw. Martin, who had followed everything Jon did with fiercely attentive caution and commentary since his arrival, remained uncharacteristically mute as Tim fumbled his phone. His inarticulate rage was struggling for a foothold, scrabbling amid the doused remnants of fury in the wake of Jon’s fear. 

Silencing the alarm left a pocket of quiet far worse than the trilling electronic cry. A space for the outrageous concern Jon voiced – that he wasn’t worth the risk – to take hold in Jon’s posture, on his face. Concern at odds with his resigned slump into Martin’s side, supported by the desperate eye contact Tim was well aware Jon struggled with. Accepting of an unknown fate, stubborn to a fault.

Tim knew he didn’t have Martin levels of an intuitive caretaker instinct. At best Tim made the kids waiting on their parent’s statements laugh; he had no clue where Martin squirreled away the cookies and coloring books he produced at moments notice. In the wake of chaos, Tim was good for a joke, a one liner, a bad pun. Distinctly the opposite of Jon’s clear distress. 

Out of his depth or not, in the face of Jon’s morbid determination Tim needed to break past the blood loss and self sacrificing idiocy. Forcing down frustration, Tim wrangled the last teaspoon of fake calm he had to match Jon’s persistent conviction. 

“Suppose it’s a good thing you don’t get to decide what I think is worth protecting then, huh?”

Martin’s shoulders relaxed minutely, relief adjacent to Jon’s wide and baffled eyes. An skeptical knot in Tim's chest unspooled as his honesty found a place among the too tight weave of pervasive tension. Felt right after an entire afternoon of wrong.

“Obviously.” Martin followed up, cutting off Jon’s faint noises of dissent. Addressing the top of Jon’s head, Martin continued firmly but not unkindly. “What you’re worth isn’t up for debate.” 

“Sorry boss,” Tim shrugged with cheery false despair, his first full faced smirk of the day appearing in force. “Guess you’re stuck with us.” 

Across the lobby the intake door opened. 

“Jonathan Sims?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love Tim okay I think he deserves nice things ;-; communication with his friends is all I ever wanted *is sad in gay* 
> 
> thanks for sticking around while I rewrite the entirety of everything! prepare for more Jon Centric Suffering next weeeeeek. 
> 
> \- 
> 
> per usual, should u be so inclined any passing contemplations or distress may be hurled into the boxes built for commenting in the below space. thank


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVED BISH
> 
> apologies for the unplanned hiatus ! my body decided it would be relevant to do some irl research into hospital visits (conclusion: Not The Most Fun I've Had) hence the surprise gap in posting. I considered posting an explanation earlier but everything sounded quite melodramatic so here we are. 
> 
> IRREGARDLESS i survived and return to overshare w/ strangers on the internet once again ! please enjoy Jon bloodloss having-a-time Sims as we continue the saga into our lovely archivists deteriorating health/mental state. 
> 
> >>>check updated tags for tw!

Jon knew he couldn’t stay in the lobby. New dangers all their own were cropping up amid the mismatched faces, the seldom open doors. Foot traffic fleeing rain and unprepared hurts cycled intermittent, incalculable and interspersed with intent. All the different causes to effect. He couldn’t stay and his name served a direct advertisement, all call announcement to what could be, might be waiting in the curves of chair backs and flickering stares. 

He couldn’t stay and they couldn’t either. Tim and Martin were sat close, too close to avoid the sprawl of collateral damage if someone or some... thing made a move. Worse even, by their posture and insistence of _worth protecting_ rolling around Jon’s mind with loose marble velocity, like they found a way to read the room in a different language. Like they wouldn’t be endangered when he stood and claimed his name. He needed to stand. He could stand. Probably. 

Jon shifted, leaden thrumming of his side a slow pulse. He hadn’t been off his feet since his skin split, the relief of his reprieve grew faint at the notion of this next step, series of steps. Under his damp sweater the sharp heat had been cooling, inverse to Martin’s arm heavy over his shoulders. Less pain was probably a good sign. He could probably stand. Jon swallowed. For some inexplicable reason this derisive conclusion hadn’t willed him to traverse the waiting room alone. 

He wasn’t alone though. Impossible to feel alone with Martin and Tim bookending the knot of braced arms and folded legs Jon had twisted his limbs into. Pinching his eyes shut, Jon would deny he stole a final moment of comfort, guilt thrumming in the bones of a traitorous truth. _He would miss this._ Pressure, grounding when it should be confining, surrounding and secure when he didn’t deserve shielding for the nothing he had to give them in return. 'Worth protecting' Tim said – but he didn’t know what was after Jon and if he told them–

If he told them.

Jon misplaced another moment he could spend standing to shock at his selfishness, inadvertently leaning closer when Martin moved slightly. This harm wasn’t susceptible to the strength of numbers, Basira had assured him secrecy was paramount. He couldn’t tell them.

The insistence was sluggish, follow up tracking mud on the clean floor of her harsh logic. Jon told her, his assistants were not police, investigation would harm, hurt, no, today was proof involvement wasn’t worth the risk. Risk driving in old nails, inarticulate and cold as the air on his neck when Martin continued moving, as Tim’s hands guided Jon’s cramping legs to unfold – wait – 

“That’s us boss. Up you get.” 

Hand under one arm, hand bracing the front of his shoulder, Tim’s words played catch up to Jon’s head swiveling, taking in Martins’ soft eyes, close, burnished curls frizzy with rain, Martin’s arm wrapping around Jon’s waist – waist – their coordinated effort pulling him to standing was a heady rush and a half. 

The waiting room came back in bursts and fits, Jon’s feet resting lightly on the tile, crusted material of the breakroom dish rag slipping as he fumbled to keep pressure. With the finer points of where his edges began and ended blending, Jon didn’t have room to sway, compacted firmly between Martin and Tim. 

“This okay?” Martin asked. 

It was, and it wasn’t. Tim’s position was perfectly manageable; adjustments awakening half settled hurts without fanfare. Muscle cramps and a shaky knees were colliding, barely constricted his lungs, predictable and awful but that was okay, it had to be. 

Martin’s arm curving around Jon’s waist, however, was intractably removing whatever powers of speech Jon briefly possessed. Jon dropped his eyes and nodded mutely, trying and failing spectacularly to prevent a full body twitch when Martin tucked his thumb through an empty belt loop. Jon pressed forward with what little body autonomy he had left, prompting slow progress from the other two. If he didn’t speak they wouldn’t know he didn’t have anything to say, right? Their combined support left any weight on his bad leg a near afterthought, shoe skipping over the ground in an inelegant slide. The drilling pressure from his time in line was reduced to a tenacious needling not worth complaint. 

Which left a rapidly eroding hole for Jon to begin crafting a manifesto of the accumulative reasons Tim and Martin’s presence was a terrible mistake of judgment, concerns spooling yards of compact typeset to yawn and compact with the twinge across his side. 

For about three steps. Jon’s silent, disparaging contemplation sidestepped neatly into the wings when his assistant’s careful movements snagged new threads of heat from his side. Forcing down the tendrils of a pained whine with an unappealing gulp, Jon pushed his free arm tighter into the dishrag that was, presumably, holding him together. Fuck. Actually this did hurt, wasn’t okay. His eyes were watering again, stupid, Jon told Martin he was okay. Too late to say anything now. 

Just needed to focus on what came next, where he was headed. The intake door. All the way across the unremarkable architecture of the lobby. Stood beside the sterile door was a nurse in scrubs, expectantly poised. Jon watched, halfheartedly searching for a long lost center of balance as the door shut behind her, soundless.

_That’s all it would take._

Jon tensed, tightening pressure on his ragged side and blindly catching a fistful of Tim’s wet shirt. Tim misinterpreted the flinch, concern lacing his features as he hunched lower. “Better?” 

“If this is uncomfortable,” Martin started, careful, like he was checking his words for thorns, “it wouldn’t be hard to – I mean, you don’t weigh much Jon.” 

“Picking him up will absolutely kill him faster than the injury,” Tim interjected, saving Jon from articulating anything beyond a mortified expression. 

“Tim.” Martin fit a mum-lecture worth of disappointment into a single disapproving syllable. 

“Martin.” Tim returned, savoring whatever victory Martin’s distaste granted him. “In all seriousness Marto, I wouldn’t suggest it. I’ve tried.” 

The exasperation, pointed fondness – Jon couldn’t find the shelf space for his recycled fears around their teasing tones. They were almost across the room, there was something he was supposed to say. Tim was addressing Martin, pointedly shooting Jon a sly side eye. “Jon is boney as hell. Those sharp elbows should come with a warning label.” 

If there was a sensical aspect to the conversation Jon couldn’t located it before he was face to face with a pleasantly calm nurse. The blue scrubs matched her hair. 

“Mr. Sims?” 

Nodding served him well so far. His repeat performance was deemed passable, nurse taking Jon and his flanking entourage in stride with a kind nod in return. 

“I’ll have you follow me,” her tone was the perishing opposite of the receptionist. “However,”

The addendum wrapped a filthy finger around the safety pin of Jon’s anxiety and pulled, drilling malformed concern down the hollow of his throat at her neatly turned phrase. 

“Space in the wards is limited,”

Jon had an uneasy countdown inclination as to where this was headed. His lungs took the initiative, greedy dial spinning from managed pull to anticipatorily interruptive. Reverse aftershocks testing the foundation of his forcibly steady breathing and finding the construction lacking. 

“…only one person may accompany Mr. Sims.” 

One of them: Martin or Tim. One of them would be there and the other would – 

The clinic entrance slammed open on wind battered hinges. Jon jumped well as he could sandwiched between two people, train of thought tilting dangerously on the thrown curve. The nurse was unaffected, tight braids immune to the lingering gust brushing Jon’s ankles, pulling rain damp tangles. The cross contamination of senses – _wind sound loud cold_ – tied Jon’s tongue when Tim began tearing out the initiative with his bare hands. “You’re probably best, Martin.” 

Pressed against his side, the shiver that ran the length of Tim’s body reverberated into Jon’s hollowing ribcage. “I can wait out here.” Tim spoke in the tight short way he adopted last month whenever the tunnels were mentioned. Or bugs. “Don’t want to get in the way.” His hold lessened, at odds with the immediate, gentle squeeze he gave when Jon tensed. “Text me if you get a chance, yeah?”

Jon couldn’t find his voice, air catching at his throat, heart hammering fit to burst. Familiar territory; drowsy muscles and a word numbed mouth were navigable. Usually. Jon knew how the next half hour played out. He knew how to hide a panic attack. Except none of his curated escape plans and curt That’s Just How Jon Is dismissals were adaptable to the dire consequences of this A&E lobby. This wasn’t right. Tim leaving wasn’t right. 

Worry had tucked in neatly to the corner of Tim’s mouth, his concern an easier disclaimer than the subtle hyperventilation Jon was free falling towards, jittering buzzing rendering his fingers useless as Tim ducked out of Jon’s hold, pressing him to Martin. Tim scoffed lightly, tension souring the chuff, “I think I’ve done enough damage for one day.” 

“Tim,” Martin called back attention Jon couldn’t when his clumsy grab missed, chest hitching, lips parting as air rebounded uselessly, thrumming, catching. Neither of his assistants seemed to notice. “I’ll text you. Promise.” 

“This way,” the nurse said, her gesturing sympathetic, words glossed in static and underscored by the heavy frantic pushing strangling unrelenting heartbeat, rate accelerating, inflexible trajectory to eclipse Jon’s throat. He couldn’t– when this happened he isolated – avoided attention – he never – he didn’t ask when – now that he needed to – he had to – 

“Right,” Tim said, grin hitting the floor. He stepped back and straightened to his full height, empty hand clenching as he nodded to the door. “I’ll, uh, leave you to it.”

_“Right, well,” Helen Richardson stood, nodding shortly, “I’ll just leave you to it then.”_

The nurse opened the intake door. There was no elongated creak of the door that wasn’t, that couldn’t and hadn’t. Merely a swift click punctuation, Tim’s parting comment indistinguishable from Helen Richardson’s last words. 

“Don’t–” Anything else Jon hadn’t planned on saying was lost to the first wheeze of professionally repressed, prepackaged anxiety attack as everything he didn’t have time to say caught on the snarl in his chest. Jon couldn’t force them to listen, to make sense or understand how he knew what would happen next. But he could rebel against a decade and a half of well-trodden instinct ( _keep quiet breathe in hold count five – seven – ten and gods sake hold eye contact they can’t know they won’t know they never know it doesn't matter you’re fine **you're fine**_ ) and hook an almost intelligible string of word from the air because Helen hadn’t come back and she wasn’t coming back and Tim had to. 

“Don’t – not safe – can’t leave – Tim.” 

Every other word was catching in the cracks of his gasping. If Martin hadn’t been holding him up Jon would have been on the floor. The near deadened hum crawling from fingers to wrists toyed intermittently with the pain in his side, combination rattling in perilous conjunction with the oxygen dragging a stutter pulsing from his lungs when he tried to pivot off his sole means of support. He had to do something. 

“Whoa, hey,” Tim moved quickly to stop Jon from using Martin as a springboard, hand falling back into place on his shoulder. “I’ll be okay, boss. Just – slow down.” 

“S’not – not safe – don’t –”

Tim’s assurance was dizzying frustration as the myriad of poorly assembled one-word arguments fell flat. Jon’s runaway heart rate was an accustomed accosting, Jon didn’t need placating when the real danger was in walking away and he had all this time why hadn’t he told them if they would to be split up – stupid – selfish – 

Martin was talking hurriedly with the nurse and Jon didn’t have time for this, if they moved him and Tim didn’t understand the danger. Which he clearly didn’t, his expression worried instead of comprehending real risk when Jon’s next gasp didn’t pull sufficient air to form words, open mouth producing a wet click that made his eyes sting – which was fine, it happened, sometimes he couldn’t breathe, he was usually just a lot quieter about it – Tim didn’t need to be wearing such a face. 

“I agree,” the nurse caught Tim off guard, “for the best.” 

And Tim was back. 

“See? I’m right here. Nothing to worry about.” 

That was about as far from the truthful as Jon could imagine, but the sentiment was nice. Jon would have loved to agree, but he was preoccupied with working his mouth around the air his body refused to acknowledge as viable and necessary. With Tim back, focusing on the snap ache bowstring beat inside his ribcage was twofold difficult – his side really hurt – he was trying. 

“Seriously Jon, you have to stop–”

“Tim,” Martin spoke over Jon’s head and Tim’s ineffectual directions. Jon was trying, really. Keeping Tim in sight, listening for new words that weren’t last word and Tim wasn’t gone and they were out of the lobby and moving and Jon would really like for breathing normally to be an option again. “I know you’re trying to help but lay off a minute, okay?”

“I don’t want him to pass out–” 

“Me either,” Martin said, “but you can’t stop having a panic attack because somebody says so. Trust me.”

How Martin knew that Jon wasn’t about to deal with. Bare minimum his wheezing granted him some special privileges, the nurse backed off when Tim and Martin lowered him into a chair. Neither took their hands off his shoulder. Two points of contact, proof he wasn’t out of his head or alone or floating– stupid, couldn’t even breathe– making it more difficult for everyone, again– 

“Breathe with me okay?” Martin said, crouching in front of him. “You’ve done this before, you can do it again.”

Before? The disconnect was overwritten by Martin picking up Jon’s buzzing hand and holding it to his chest, deep inhale taking the shaking fingers up and down in time with Tim’s hand on Jon’s back. 

It was a lot. The kind of touch Jon shied away from, the kind of help he was taught not to ask for. Pressure and pattern that helped put him back in his numb-cold body, woke up the different disorderly conduct of what landed him in A&E in the first place. 

Pain planted separate sensation amid Jon’s messy breaths. A focal point, a fixture to drag all the airy inconsistencies back to the hurt in his side, the throbbing that was real, fresh, sharp – not the overwhelming weaponized wheezing from the lobby. Jon slid into the up and down Martin was demonstrating more rapidly than usual. 

_Accelerated panic attack_ , Jon considered weakly. Significantly more convenient than those drawn out affairs jumping him periodically during the work week, or over a hurried breakfast, or the commute home, or – Jon shook his head, fingers digging into Martins sweater. His search for texture was oddly successful. The stain from earlier left a gory little home for his gradually warming hand. 

The concept of 'too tired to hyperventilate' landed somewhere amid the wreckage of Jon's focus as Martin pivoted to address the nurse. Maybe he was faking all of it to begin with. If he was that much of an asshole Jon might as well live up to it, tell the nurse to sod off when she asked him if he had any allergies. Breathing normally didn’t mean he wanted to waste his valuable sliver of awareness on her. 

He didn’t, but it was a near thing. If Martin hadn’t repeated the question Jon might've, but he wasn’t very well going to tell Martin to fuck off. Jon was tired and bored and could breathe now and they made it out of the waiting room and he wanted to be left alone with Tim and Martin now, please, they said they were safe here, no matter how loud people in the hall were. Or how tight the cuff inflated around his arm when Tim took his jacket, showing off the visible crusting of blood and heat and cold between the folds of his sweater that wasn’t leaking hardly at all anymore. 

“Mr. Sims?” 

Jon peeled his eyes open again when Martin gently nudged him. “Mmh?”

“Are you currently taking any prescription medication?” 

Jon blinked sluggishly. Currently he was sitting in a small room doing his best to remain conscious, the fear that kept him wired from the Archives to this moment was teetering perilously out of reach. Besides, it wasn’t like he had his meds in his pockets _currently_. 

Well. His jacket was custodian to the ritalin, folded up in an envelope because he didn’t like how the pill container would ruin the lines. All his xanax was way back at the Institute, rattling around in the top desk drawer. The others lined the bottom of the mirror, neat little orange containers of heights and shapes he knew the names of, if he had to tell her he could, but it was a real chore.

“Jon.” Martin prompted. Any clever response was darted by Martin’s thumb skimming the dip of his collarbone when Jon leaned forward to show he was listening. “Medication?” 

Sighing dramatically was an uncomfortable affair that reminded his settling skin it wasn’t in the right place – it was still the best way to convey how put upon he was without opening his mouth. 

Tim and Martin were trading looks Jon hadn’t the energy to pick apart. Apparently Tim lost, tapping his hand lightly on Jon’s shoulder. “You taking any drugs, boss man?” 

Did he have to say? All the names and numbers? Maybe not. He could ask.

“All of them?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look i lofe him , post hoc ergo propter hoc , bad times bingo keeps spinning the wheel 
> 
> mixed metaphors aside, i really really hope y'all liked this chapter ! I rewrote it a couple times and am trying v hard to get back into the swing of posting :DDDD lemme kno if it sounds off, yeh? 
> 
> i am now leery of promising any posting schedule, but here's to hopeful I can wrangle the next chapter in a week or two! thank you all for your patience <3


End file.
